


Your Tongue Is Wine

by TheDruidIsIn



Series: The Violet Hour: Oh, to be wicked or to be sweet [2]
Category: Horror Fandom, Slasher Fandom - Fandom, The Boy (2016 Bell)
Genre: Brahms is a good boy sometimes, Brahms just wants love, Brahms’ Cardigan, Bratty Brahms Heelshire, Choking, Cunnilingus, Dahlia is living the dream, Established Relationship, F/M, Light Bruising, Mention of spanking, Mutual Masturbation, Oral Sex, Orgasm Denial, Praise Kink, Submissive Brahms Heelshire, Tender Sex, Tiny brief mention of character death, Touch-Starved, Vaginal Sex, horror fandom - Freeform, semi-rough sex, slasher fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:21:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26664355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDruidIsIn/pseuds/TheDruidIsIn
Summary: In the ongoing theme of stealing your slasher SO’s sweater/shirt, I give you a tale of borrowing one of Brahms’ cardigans.
Relationships: Brahms Heelshire/Original Female Character(s), Brahms Heelshire/Reader
Series: The Violet Hour: Oh, to be wicked or to be sweet [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1939786
Comments: 5
Kudos: 64





	Your Tongue Is Wine

**Author's Note:**

> Dahlia wears one of Brahms’ cardigans and then asks Brahms to help warm her up. OC/Reader insert deal again.

A chill draft woke me with a start. I sleepily rubbed my eyes and pulled the borrowed cardigan tighter about me. Brahms’ quiet, younger voice broke in before I could drift further to sleep. “Dahlia? Why are you still outside? It’s not safe to sleep out here.”

I startled awake again, my eyes popping open. They landed on Brahms, his stare concerned through his mask. I straightened up from my slumped position in the porch swing, stretching and wincing when I felt all the places that hurt because I slept awkwardly. Around us, night had truly fallen, swarthy, velvet, and thick without streetlights to deaden it. “I was looking at the stars. It’s so different here from the city, no light pollution. I must have fallen asleep….” I smiled at him and reached up to cup his cheek with one hand, the porcelain frigid even to my stiff, icy fingers. “I don’t suppose you’d like to carry me to bed for our goodnight kiss?”

I could see him growing excited—from the way his eyes became hooded and his Adam’s Apple bobbed to the heaving of his chest and the bulge in his trousers. “Have I been a good boy?” He nearly _—nearly—_ broke out of the higher-pitcher, softer tone, nearly choked by arousal. 

“The best boy,” I told him. “You gave me your cardigan to wear earlier.” 

Preening, seemingly having forgotten that, his eyes dropped to the garment. He wore one often—so often, in fact, that he’d worn one the first time we made love. It took him weeks to recover from his injuries, but I nursed him back to health with every ounce of care I could muster. I still had trouble believing that Greta had left him to die. Coming back after all those years passed to discover that people thought he murdered me along with my cousin, Emily, to see him lying on the floor in a pool of his own blood had both shocked me to my core and devastated me. 

Brahms, who I loved since we met when I was five years old. He’d been a bit older, but not by much. Brahms, who had pushed Emily down after seeing her beating me, whose eyes grew wide when her skull smacked into a rock and her blood spread rapidly across the ground, her once cruel gaze unseeing. I’d told my aunt and uncle that she fell after hitting me, that it was an accident, but they didn’t believe me. Like many locals, they believed the worst of Brahms, and it was enough that he’d been with me, that he’d walked me back to them with blood splattered on his clothing and mine. 

Being an orphan with both natural parents and godparents dead, they’d sent me to a boarding school for my entire education and apparently never spoken of me again to anyone outside the family. I’d only been able to come back recently, and finding him like that amongst so much blood….

“Carry me back and make me warm, Brahms?” I stretched my arms out toward him and Brahms, without hesitation, complied. He scooped me up and cradled me to his chest, taking care not to jostle me as he made his way back inside and into the walls. As he walked, I clutched his shirt for stability, inhaling his scent, imagining what would soon play out in his bed. He loved to be praised, loved to be told what a good boy he was, no matter how much he often acted bratty. 

When he gently laid me into his messy bed, I traced around the eyes of his mask. “Mask off this time, Brahms. I want to see your handsome face when you finish.”

I could feel his blush despite the expressionlessness of his mask. The porcelain face gave him a perfectly poised facade behind which to conceal his emotions, but I could see a flush rising on his neck, could see the way his hands trembled when he lifted them to the strap holding it in place and the way he visibly swallowed out of nerves. He still experienced a sense of anxiety letting me see his face, but he knew he could trust me with his feelings. I wouldn’t punish him for his vulnerability. 

The mask fell away and he shied away from my scrutiny as he placed it on his nightstand. He closed his eyes as I caressed the far side of his face, fingers sliding over badly healed burn scars. “Brahms...you don’t have to hide here.”

“Dahlia…” The first syllable started soft and high, but by the end his voice deepened to its natural timber as a moan escaped his throat. From the ever-growing bulge, he’d grown painfully hard. I knew how feral he could be, and I knew the restraint it must take for him to continue to wait like a good boy. 

I continued to lightly stroke his cheek as I used my other hand to draw the hem of my dress up past my waist, revealing myself to be bare. His breath hitched as he stared at every inch of exposed flesh. I raised up to bring the dress to rest against my shoulders, shivering as the cold air hit both my breasts and my exposed vulva. “Brahms,” I whispered. “Be a good boy and make love to me?”

Brahms fumbled with his belt, growing frustrated when he couldn’t immediately release it. I shushed him and sat up to help him. “It’s okay,” I soothed, pushing his hands out of the way, “Let me do it.” 

Once he quieted down, pouting a bit as he watched, I set to work. Using a deftness that came with practiced ease I unbuckled his belt, undid the button and unzipped his fly, then shimmied out of his cardigan—despite his whining protest—to pull my dress over my head. I tossed it to the end of his bed before slipping back into the cardigan. Brahms carefully cupped my left breast in the palm of his hand. When he looked fully into my face, one eye like a chip of obsidian and one marble white, I saw his need and his adoration as clear as day. I don’t think Brahms could _fuck_ to save his life, but he could make love all day and all night long. I tugged him closer so that he stood between my legs half naked and fully aroused. 

“Show me the stars,” I told him. “With all of your heart and soul.”

I toyed with the chest hair peeking out above his tank top. He glanced down at it, then took the fabric between his hands and ripped it down the middle. His shirt hung open in tatters, baring his chest to me. I traced the scars Greta left on him, still angry with her. My eyes flicked up to meet his as I reclined again, the cardigan spreading out around me like the wings of a fallen angel. A worshipful expression came over his face. He dropped to his knees, hand circling his cock as his tongue delved into my wetness. “Don’t finish yet,” I warned him, twining his dark curls around my fingers. “Good boys finish inside.”

There were few things more effective than an IUD, save abstinence. It proved itself rather useful since Brahms and I both liked the feel of me taking him raw and him finishing inside of me. My back arched off the bed, a moan and encouraging words falling from my lips. “Yes, Brahms, like that—don’t stop. Touch yourself for me.” I watched him through half-lidded eyes, watched the frantic strokes of his tightly clenched fist as it traveled his length, watched his head bob as he drew my labia into his mouth and licked between my folds. Three of his fingers slid into me as he sucked my clit into his mouth and with a gasp I bucked hard enough to dislodge him. He kissed the tip of my clit and flicked it with the tip of his tongue, his fingers not pausing. As he sucked my clit into his mouth a second time, a guttural, deep-throated moan trembled in his throat. Whether because of the vibrations, his tongue, or the visual of him growing increasingly sensitive, I came with a rush of fluid that coated his lips and chin. He continued his attention until I came again. 

As I lay panting and twitching, he pulled me to the edge of the bed, draping my legs over his shoulders. His cock head teased my folds, the tip just barely penetrating. He must be growing impatient, I mused as his hands sought out mine. “Was I good to you, Dahlia?” His older voice sounded just as earnest as his younger one then, eager to please and pleased by pleasing. 

“Yes, Brahms,” I panted. “You were a very good boy, but now I need your help.” I undulated so that a bit more of his length pushed past my lips. “There’s a spot inside that hurts. It needs your attention.” 

Locking eyes with him, I bit my lip and lowered my hand between my thighs to rub at my clit. “Kiss it with your cock like a good boy, Brahms.”

Brahms hardly needed more prompting. He slammed his entire length and girth into me full-force, eliciting a whimper. He was a bit much for me, but I took all of him anyway. He paused, worry flickering over his features, but it melted away when I squirmed impatiently. He rested his hands on either side of my head as he picked up where he left off. I could tell that part of him wanted to be gentle, that he still didn’t know his own strength, but this would be one of the times where he couldn’t restrain the feral part of his nature. He drug his hands down my body to my hips, pinning them down as he continued his brutal pace. Bruises in the shape of his thumbs might appear there in the morning, but that only meant sitting on his face as he made it up to me, then a round of something far gentler to show his remorse—after his spanking, of course, after making him watch without finishing as I came from my own touch, after letting him enter me and forcing him to be still until my orgasm abated. Then he would move slowly, _so slowly_ , sensitive to every touch. A slow, torturous, soft pleasure for my bratty lover to follow his nearly rabid appetite now.

I think sometimes he misbehaved just so he could be punished, and the thought nearly made me convulse with pleasure. My entire body shook as I clenched around him, awash with ecstasy. As if from a distance I heard my own moans interspersed with praise. “Yes, Brahms, good, good boy, such a good boy, _my_ good boy, oh Brahms, _fuck…_.”

Brahms tipped his head back, his teeth clenching around his lower lip so hard I worried he might bite through it. He whimpered, becoming more erratic. “Dah…lia.” 

“Not yet,” I ordered him, feeling another orgasm building. His hands released their crushing grip on my hips to slide underneath me and lift my upper body slightly—enough that I could reach out and wrap my fingers around his throat. A chord of muscle stood out starkly. As my next orgasm hit, I tightened my hold, squeezing with carefully applied pressure. “Now,” I whispered before he could whine again, forcing my fingers to maintain consistent pressure even as my legs trembled and my nerves tried to drag me down into a full-body convulsion. Three harsh breaths and then Brahms was exploding inside of me, pressing me close as his own orgasm finally crashed through his system. My hand dropped away from my clit and I focused on using the muscles of my walls to clamp down on him. We toppled onto the bed when he could no longer remain standing, with my grasp on his throat breaking and Brahms continuing to rut until he collapsed onto me quite suddenly, completely spent. 

I stroked his hair away from his sweaty brow, kissing his temple. “You were a very good boy,” I whispered, “The absolute best boy.” 

He lay there softening inside of me, panting against my neck. “I love you, Dahlia,” he murmured. 

I kissed him again and wrapped my arms around him. “I love you too, Brahms.” 


End file.
